


Memoir

by odainath



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-23 04:17:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23272189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odainath/pseuds/odainath
Summary: Summary:  AU.  It begins as an accident, a culmination of unexpected circumstances.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 9
Kudos: 64





	Memoir

The sound of her alarm wakes Miranda from her sleep that Friday morning. She reaches for the opposite side of the bed, searching for an all-too-familiar body and her eyes snap open when they find no one lying next to her. Instead, a creased note with _‘Miranda’_ written on the front in a well-known hand rests against the pillow.

Miranda unfolds the piece of paper, her eyes widening as she reads the slanting script.

_‘Define this.’_

She sits bolt upright, even as her heart sinks.

_Oh no._

_-o-_

**One.**

The press had been vicious once they became aware of her upcoming divorce. More so than they had ever been before. And – contrary to popular belief – sometimes, _sometimes_ their words cut straight to the quick. Not that she would ever admit that to anyone. After all, she was the living legend, the woman whose didn’t let such petty trivialities upset her in any way, shape or form. The woman who would rise above all this.

She closes her eyes for a moment. 

What complete and utter nonsense.

Miranda wills tears not to fall as she reaches behind herself to unzip her skirt. Hundreds of dollars’ worth of material fall to the ground and she nudges it towards the laundry basket where her top and underwear follow soon afterwards as she continues to strip off her clothes. She turns the water on as hot as she can stand and steps inside, hunching her shoulders and letting the scalding drops pound against her back. It almost hurts and she savours the sensation for a few moments as she stares down at the marble tiles beneath her feet.

“Mom?”

Cassidy’s voice brings her back to reality and she looks out from behind the shower curtain. Her daughter leans against the doorframe, arms folded, her expression harsh. She looks eerily like Miranda, from the ice-blue eyes down to the pursed lips.

“Yes?” Miranda asks.

Her daughter’s bottom lip trembles and tears brim in her eyes as she takes a deep breath. “Just once, mom,” she begins. “But …” She rubs a hand against her eyes. “We thought you and Stephen might actually work,” she tries again. “We _like_ Stephen …” She shakes her head, holds up her hands. “But you just …” 

Cassidy turns and sprints back to her room, choking back a sob. 

Miranda returns to the scalding hot shower.

-o-

**Two.**

She has Andrea call Lesley, to do _something_ to curb the numerous articles the press continued to publish every day. The articles that send her twins rushing to their bedrooms. Unfortunately, small matters like the first amendment come into play and there is no way to stop the gleeful accounts from various anonymous sources that are splashed across page six. 

“I’m sorry, Miranda,” Lesley says for the umpteenth time, “but there’s simply no way …”

Miranda doesn’t bother listening to the rest of Lesley’s sentence and hangs up. She spins her chair around and looks out at the Manhattan skyline. She lets herself take a deep breath, gets herself back under control.

A soft knock grabs her attention and she glances over her shoulder. Andrea stands in the doorway, hesitant as Miranda raises a supercilious eyebrow, lips pursed.

“Stephen’s lawyer …” Andrea begins, “he wishes to …”

“I’m busy,” Miranda interrupts. “As should be _extremely_ obvious …”

“They wish to schedule another meeting,” Andrea cuts in. “They’re not happy with what has been agreed and want to negotiate …”

“Which is precisely what Lesley gets paid for …”

“He said he’d make things more difficult,” Andrea said quickly. 

Miranda exhales slowly, hating her soon-to-be-ex-husband. “Clear my Thursday morning. We can meet then.”

“Sure, Miranda,” Andrea says, already turning around. “Right away.”

_-o-_

_He hadn’t been lying,_ Miranda thinks bitterly as she throws down the latest copy of the New York Times onto the coffee table. The twins hadn’t spoken a word to her, choosing instead to eat and then run straight up to their rooms without so much as a _‘goodnight’._ She sits down on the sofa in the centre of the lounge and lets her head fall back. She would love to go upstairs to her bedroom and curl up, call it an evening but knows that Andrea will be arriving any minute with the latest Runway book.

A few minutes pass and she hears the key entering the lock and the door handle turning as her assistant lets herself inside. She straightens up, trying to look more attentive and manages a curt nod as Andrea enters. 

“There you are,” she says sharply. “Finally.”

Andrea doesn’t say anything, her eyes falling to the New York Times in the centre of the coffee table with its headline ‘Dragon Lady!’ complete with a candid photograph of Miranda at a gala ball glaring from the front page. Her expression softens to what Miranda recognises as pity and she feels anger surge forth. The woman had no right, no right at all to feel _pity._

“Would you like me to do anything else, Miranda?” Andrea asks softly.

Miranda shakes her head, holding out her hand for the book. 

That look of _pity_ Miranda despises doesn’t lessen but Andrea wisely chooses not to say a word as she hands it across and leaves the lounge room, closing the door softly behind her.

-o-

**Three.**

Another night, another book and Miranda finds herself unsure what exactly is going on when she wakes up on the sofa with a blanket pulled to her chin. A blanket she distinctly _didn’t_ remember tucking herself underneath. The latest mock-up is on the adjacent table and she can hear Prada heels clicking against the wooden floor.

“Andrea?” she calls.

Her assistant comes back into the room and gives her a hesitant smile. “You looked comfortable,” she says hurriedly. “And I didn’t want to disturb you so …”

Miranda holds up a hand, halting her mid-sentence. Andrea pouts, clearly annoyed, but says nothing.

“I hope you don’t think you _needed_ to cover me up?” Miranda says, trying to lace her voice with a harshness she doesn’t truly feel. “Because that would be …”

“Look, Miranda,” Andy interjects, holding up a placatory hand. “You were on the sofa, asleep when I came in and looked cold. I grabbed a blanket and pulled it over you.” She shrugs her shoulders. “That’s it. End of story.”

Miranda opens her mouth, wanting to give some cutting riposte but finds she simply doesn’t have the energy. Instead, she murmurs a soft ‘thank you’ that surprises even herself.

Andrea’s eyes widen in disbelief before she gives a ‘goodbye’ and heads for the front door.

-o-

The next evening, Andrea finds her by the windowsill overlooking the courtyard. Snow falls, coating the back garden in white. The twins are with their father, sending the townhouse into an eerie silence. There was no sound from either girls’ room, no footsteps, no whispered conversations, nothing.

Nothing.

She hates it.

Miranda folds her arms across her chest as she watches a solitary snowflake’s descent to the ground and thinks she might scream. She wants nothing more than to _get out,_ her mind in circles. A gentle hand touches her shoulder, gaining her attention, and she looks at Andrea’s reflection in the window. 

“Come on,” her assistant says softly, tugging one of her hands and pulling her toward the hallway. 

This goes against any _normal_ behaviour, of that Miranda is under no delusions but she nonetheless allows herself to be taken into the lounge room.

“Would you like something to drink?” Andrea asks, sitting her down and making sure she is comfortable.

“Water,” Miranda answers, nodding towards the collection of bottled water in the corner of the room. 

Andrea gathers a crystal tumbler and pours a glass, resting the water on a coaster on the coffee table. Miranda reaches out and takes the glass, taking a small sip and asking the younger woman a question that had been lingering in the back of her head for quite some time.

“Why did you stay at Runway? After Paris?” she breathes. “It was more than obvious you wanted to leave. You hate the mere _idea_ we might be remotely alike. Offended, even.”

Andrea hesitates before answering. “Truly, Miranda?” she says. “I’m not entirely sure.” 

She rises to her feet and nods towards the latest copy of the book. It’s not the answer Miranda was expecting and she watches in silence as Andrea falters, unsure what to say. 

“I wish to god that I _did_ know,” Andrea says in a rush. “But …” The brunette takes a deep breath, hesitates then shakes her head. “I just don’t know,” she ends in a whisper.

Confusion fills Miranda’s mind as Andrea spins on her stiletto heel and walks out.

-o-

**Four.**

She arrives back at the office after yet another meeting with Stephen and his lawyers. He’s showing a callous streak she’d never seen before, demanding more and more. Her tonic water is exactly where she wishes and she takes a sip as she sits down, adjusting the pile of magazines Andy or Emily had laid out across her desk. Her wedding ring which she had forgotten to take off catches her attention and she finds herself throwing it into a desk drawer, not caring where it lands. The sound of footsteps catches her attention and she looks up, seeing Andrea in front of her. The brunette’s eyes are fixed on the faint white line on the fourth finger of her left hand, but she says nothing.

“I have James Holt on the line,” she explains. “He says it’s urgent.”

Miranda reaches for the phone even as she waves Andrea away. She cannot help thinking of her assistant’s words from the night before. _“I just don’t know…”_

James is right, it’s an utter catastrophe and she rises to her feet, gesturing for Emily to get her coat and bag. Andrea is behind her an instant later, her own bag in tow along with her ever-present notebook. She follows Miranda down to her car and Roy takes them to the designer’s office. There is a crisis with the material and James has been unable to obtain the precise shade of red silk needed for the latest issue. 

“You’ll have to re-do everything,” she says dismissively. “That was the centrepiece of the collection and …” She gives the tell-tale purse of the lips. “Have this complete by the end of the week.”

James swallows but nonetheless nods as he gestures for one of his assistants to enter. She hands him a sketch pad and he flicks through until he finds another design which he passes across. Even Miranda admits, it’s a stunning dress, and she gives a perfunctory nod. 

“Begin with this,” she orders.

She’s already rising to her feet as she finishes her sentence, reaching for her bag as Andrea heads for the rack to grab their coats. She doesn’t bother with a ‘goodbye’ as she walks back outside. The New York winter sends a shiver down her spine and she hurries towards the waiting car. Andrea rushes ahead to open the door and Miranda folds herself inside.

“Nothing seems to be going well,” she grouses, glaring at the passers-by as they bustle through the streets. “This issue …” Her mobile rings, interrupting her mid-sentence and she answers without looking at the screen knowing from the personalised ringtone that it was one of the twins.

“Bobsey?” she asks.

Miranda recognises Caroline’s voice as she all-but whispers _‘_ Mom’ several times. She upset and Miranda finds herself tensing as her daughter inhales a shaky, choked breath. “Mom?” she tries again, “It’s … it’s …”

Miranda’s eyes widen and she snaps her fingers to gain Andrea’s attention, handing her hand out for the other woman’s notebook. Her assistant looks startled as Miranda snatches a pen from her bag and writes quickly.

“Of course,” she finishes. “I’m coming now.” Roy is pulling up outside the Runway office and she leans forward to speak over his shoulder. “I need you to take me to Dalton. We need to get the twins,” she says hurriedly even as she scrawls notes in Andrea’s notebook. “Andrea, give these to Nigel. Tell him to host the meeting in my absence. If there is anything particularly relevant that he believes I need to know about, tell him to email me.”

“Miranda, what-?” 

“That’s wasn’t a request,” Miranda snaps. “Get up there now.”

The worried look on Andrea’s face does not falter but she nonetheless exists the car and runs toward the Runway office. Roy pulls out into the New York traffic the second the door has closed behind her, knowing better than to ask any further questions. Miranda bites her thumbnail as they weave through traffic, willing the car to go faster. What seems like hours later, they pull up in the front of the school’s main administration office.

She doesn’t bother to thank Roy as she hurries up the stairs.

The secretary’s face falls as she catches sight of Miranda rushing toward the front desk. 

“Ms Priestly …” she begins. 

“Where are they?” she demands. “I want to see them. Now.”

She hears muffled sobs from behind her and a second later two small figures collide with her waist, nearly sending her to the ground. She ushers them to the small waiting room and sits them down, trying to figure out what on earth has happened. They won’t give anything away, tears still running down their faces and she takes a deep breath, rises to her feet. They clasp her outstretched hands and she takes them back to the car and orders Roy to drive them home.

The instant they enter the silver Mercedes, they push themselves against her and she wraps her arms around their shoulders, pulling them close. 

_-o-_

The book is later than usual and Miranda leans both hands against the kitchen bench, lets her head fall down. Neither twin will reveal what happened and that feeling of sheer inadequacy, as a parent, as a wife and as a friend threatens to bring her to tears.

“Oh.”

She looks up to find Andrea in the doorway, her eyes wide with concern. It seems eerily similar to Paris. Miranda doesn’t say a word, simply looks down at the marble bench again. Andrea crosses the short distance between them and, to Miranda’s surprise, places a gentle hand on her shoulder. It goes against every unwritten rule between editor and assistant, but Miranda doesn’t move away.

“Have they said anything?” her assistant says softly.

She shakes her head even as she raises one hand, rests it against Andrea’s. The other woman stiffens for a second, clearly shocked, but soon relaxes.

Miranda inhales deep.

_-o-_

**Five.**

She looks truly dreadful, of that there is little doubt. Tired, drawn-out, her cheekbones pushing against her skin as if she hasn’t eaten in weeks. Her make-up artist tries valiantly to hide the dark shadows beneath her eyes, add some colour to her cheeks, but there is little she can do. Soon enough, she dismisses the girl with a curt nod and calls Nigel in.

His eyes widen in alarm as they fall upon her. There was another fashion shoot later that night but she can’t be seen in public in her current state. She can only imagine the glee the press would take in reporting her appearance. _‘The Cracks Beginning to Show!’ ‘Fashion Dragon Falls Short!’_

“Good god, Miranda …” he begins, clearly unsure what the hell was going on.

“I can’t go to the shoot tonight so need you to take extensive notes,” she interrupts. “Drop them off at my house once the shoot is over.”

He nods slowly. “Of course.”

She glances toward the door, a clear dismissal. “That’s all.”

_-o-_

She finds the folder later that night, resting on the hall table. Numerous post-it notes adorn the pages, with clear descriptions and suggestions in each margin. It’s up to Nigel’s usual exemplary standard and she finds a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

“Hi,” a soft voice says from behind her.

Andrea stands in the hallway, holding Miranda’s dry-cleaning in one hand and the book in the other. Nigel obviously gave her some warning as Andrea doesn’t look remotely surprised at her current appearance. She hangs up the dry-cleaning before stepping across and handing Miranda the book. 

“Goodnight, Miranda,” she says softly.

Miranda nods as the other woman turns around to leave, remembering the feeling of her hand on Miranda’s shoulder, the sense of sanctuary and the scent of roses. Part of her wants to call out, ask Andrea to stay just a few minutes longer.

Instead, she watches as the younger woman opens the door and walks out onto the still-busy street.


End file.
